


Chlorine In Kandahar

by wordswordswords7



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Hurt John, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Serious Injuries, St Bartholomew's Hospital, The Pool Scene, unkind to harry watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9105034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordswordswords7/pseuds/wordswordswords7
Summary: “I would try to convince you, but everything I've got to say has already crossed your mind.”He's been biting back images of IED blasts and the scorching sun since the vest was strapped to his chest; heavy like his old army gear but far less forgiving. Blinking his SOS to Sherlock had only been partially a conscious decision.(Previously posted under my old account EastSideIndie but with new edits)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

“I would try to convince you, but everything I've got to say has already crossed your mind.”

 

He's been biting back images of IED blasts and the scorching sun since the vest was strapped to his chest; heavy like his old army gear but far less forgiving. Blinking his SOS to Sherlock had only been partially a conscious decision, and he's just begun to pull himself out of the panic with a bit of levity ( _“Well I'm glad no one saw that”_ ) when the return of the sniper marks, red and burning into him like fire, send him crashing back into it.

 

The nod, when he gives it to Sherlock, is not given in a moment of clarity, as his flatmate no doubt believes. He does not see Sherlock. He sees Lieutenant Bill Murray as he gives the silent order to pull the trigger. But it doesn't matter because John's muscles are poised to the same course of action here in the present as they had been in the past; like some twisted sense of muscle memory. Pool or Afghanistan, John is ready for what happens next.

 

“Probably mine has crossed yours...”

The air around them stills and the smell of chlorine anchors John to the seconds building around him. Building to a crescendo. Moriarty breaks into a reptilian smile, confident within a moment where confidence is not due to him. As time slows down to a gut-wrenching beat, John watches the muscles and tendons of Sherlock’s hand tighten, just as Murray's had once done. He feels himself react before his mind can catch up with his body. It's purely semantics though because his mind would have given his muscles the order had it been granted the time.

 

There is heat and pain – pain that _should_ feel deeper and more consuming, but doesn't (merely promises to in the future). Heat that is from a bomb but not a roadside bomb.

 

They are enveloped into the cold depths of the pool.

 

The world around them is lost to the muffling and buoyant calm of the water, not to shouting and sand and insurgents, as his mind tries to tell him it does. When the flashes of light ease and darkness encompasses the air above them John pushes upward, one arm wrapped around Sherlock's chest, his lungs bursting for air. He has to push past chunks of tile and concrete as the debris glides listlessly through the space around them. When his fingers touch the familiar shape of a gun, he grabs it unthinkingly. The lights have gone out and so his movements are blind but he knows that shape and that weight better than he knows his own self. When they break through the surface and he gasps in desperation, and is relieved to feel Murray...no, _Sherlock_ do the same despite immediately going limp in John's grasp. Another bolt of pain shoots through the wrist of the arm that holds his friend. _Broken,_ he thinks but continues to hold on anyway. Later, he would recognize it as adrenalin. His ears ring and there is no light to see how injured the unconscious man is, though John is sure his own body had taken most of the blast.

 

They float for a moment, John choking on the residual smoke and dust. He feels that pull again, hears orders through the incessant ringing. Hears his name, hears _captain_ and _medic._ He feels heat and dryness where there is none and tastes the sand in his mouth. Murray's chest rattles beneath John's broken wrist and he realizes that Bill is choking on air too and, distantly, how strange it is to smell chlorine in Kandahar.

 

Not so strange, though. He's in water after all. _A pool_ , his tired mind supplies.

 

Cursing, John tries to swim to the edge. Already his limbs are turning to rubber and he finds himself sinking more than propelling himself forward. He reaches out blindly for any kind of handhold, gun still clenched tightly and making the task difficult, and he recoils when he comes face to flesh with a dismembered limb, detached and floating amidst the debris. He chokes back bile and forces himself forward. He knows his cargo has both arms and legs, can feel them; knows he does too. Maybe it belongs to an insurgent, perhaps a sniper – John doesn't care. He needs to find the edge of the pool, but darkness and a possible concussion (if the dizziness and nausea are any indication) are confusing his sense of direction. Just as he sinks again, inhaling another gulp of chlorinated water, his fingers bump against metal hanging loosely from the tiled pool interior.

 

The pool ladder!

 

He tries in vain to haul Murray out of the water and onto the ledge where he sets down the gun, but he simply doesn't have the strength and the pain is returning in waves. His head, his wrist, his back may very well be on fire despite being submerged in water. Instead, he shoves the broken wrist he's got secured around his cargo’s middle into the other man's belt, crying out in pain (he thinks, because he still can't hear for all the ringing). He grabs for the gun again, shoving his free arm through the warped metal of the ladder right to his shoulder, and then rams it through the top most rung. If he passes out now their heads will hopefully stay above water. If he can hold onto consciousness, John can still shoot the gun. He hopes to God there are still bullets in it. He can't say for sure, but it certainly feels like _his_ gun – the one that shot the vest...

 

The vest that _Sherlock_ shot, not Bill Murray – _Sherlock._ Not Kandahar, London. Not the Taliban, Moriarty. But definitely snipers...

 

His past and present are clashing and it makes John's head throb. Or perhaps the concussion does that, but this isn't helping matters either. Still, war zone or not, there is a threat. A threat to himself and a threat to Sherlock. John forgets about the limb in the water, and feels Moriarty's eyes on them in the darkness; hears movement despite his deaf ears. Panic, nowhere near to settling, forces his arm up awkwardly as it is still slightly hindered by the ladder rung. His hand is steady when he shoots with nothing to aim at and the blast from the gun leaves a bright picture of the room around them burned into his retinas. Mayhem and disaster, or what little the brief flash of light has granted him, is all that is left of the pool.

 

John's body is getting cold, so cold. If his wrist were not tucked into Sherlock's belt he'd have no choice but to let the man go to sink into the carnage-ridden water.

 

He is ice.

 

He is weak.

 

He is only holding the gun now because his fingers are stiff around it.

 

Beams of light from far off make his eyes flutter open.

 

John raises the gun.

 

Moriarty can't have Sherlock. John is determined to stop him at all costs.

 

The lights give him something to aim at.

 

He pulls the trigger.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

He loses count but eventually he realizes the gun does not kick back with the weight of dislodging a bullet from its metal body. Perhaps it’s the prospect of an empty chamber, but John finds that he can no longer stop the oblivion from dragging him under.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Greg wishes he had called in sick this morning.

 

He had made the connection before the explosion had happened, was en-route in fact. Since the first victim, when Sherlock had begun communicating with the bomber via his website, Lestrade had given the task of monitoring the blog to a junior detective back at the Yard. The officer had been quick to let him know something was going down at a pool at midnight and Greg Lestrade wasn't an idiot.

 

Carl Powers – where better to have an idiotic cloak and dagger meeting than at Sherlock's first crime scene? Surprisingly without complaint, Donovan is the one to jump into the passenger seat of his car, and is the one to continue making the calls to bring in the extra officers, the bomb squad, and the paramedics. They see and hear the explosion when they are still two streets away. They should wait, he knows, for the building to be secured, but he is too terrified of what he might find inside to sit back and do nothing. Besides, by the time they make it inside the smoke has (mostly) cleared and the dust is beginning to settle.

 

For all the ways Sally surprises him, she is also the one to be shot by John Watson. No doubt she is wishing she'd stayed home today too.

 

It's a graze to the arm – barely a scratch – but it forces them back behind some rubble until the sound of shots is replaced by the sound of a trigger loading nothing into an empty chamber.

 

_Clickclickclickclickclick._

“Shit! Who is that?” Sally gasps, flashing her torch at the tear in her suit jacket and the blood that wells up beneath it.

 

“Dammit, is it bad?” Greg asks, aiming his own torch at the damage.

 

She hisses as she places a hand over the wound but shakes her head. “Just a graze. Whoever it is doesn't even know they're out of bullets...”

 

The erratic _clickclickclick_ echoes around them without pause.

 

He sucks in a deep breath and pops his head around the slab of concrete they are hiding behind – his torch aimed at their assailant.

 

“Fucking Christ!”

 

When he doesn't take cover Sally peeks beyond the slab as well and looks to where the light has fallen. Two men pressed against the interior wall of the pool, one unconscious, the other sweeping an empty gun back and forth in the Yarders' direction.

 

John Watson looks like a manic corpse, holding an equally deceased looking Sherlock Holmes' head above the water. Greg moves out from cover just as John's grasp on the gun weakens and the firearm is lost to the water. The smaller man slumps against Sherlock, and they sink a few more inches.

 

Both Donovan and Lestrade are spurred into motion, clamoring over debris until they find their way to the consulting detective and doctor.

 

“Christ! Are they –?”

 

Sally reaches down and hovers a hand over Sherlock's mouth.

 

“No, he's still breathing!”

 

“Help me pull them out!”

 

Sherlock is in front of John so they each grab an arm and begin the pull but...

 

“Watch it, he's all tangled up there.”

 

He sees it. John's wrist is looking _wrong_ all wrapped up in the other man's belt. Sally reaches down and disengages it with no small amount of effort, her torch clenched between her teeth. Once it’s clear they begin to haul the taller man out once again. He drags himself into consciousness just as they lay him on the only clear bit of space nearby.

 

“...John...”

 

His deep baritone voice is a husky rasp in comparison to its usual silk.

 

“Shhh, Sherlock. Relax, we've got you.”

 

He doesn't even seem to hear Sally and Lestrade vaguely considers the man might be deafened from the blast. He turns back to John, torch now between his teeth as Sally's had been. He's got to lay flat on his stomach and submerge his arms in order to pull the doctor out by himself. Small man or not, John is all dead weight now and Greg is not as young as he used to be.

 

“John? John!”

 

He looks over his shoulder and sees Sally trying to keep the consulting detective on his back.

 

“Christ, you berk! Stop! Stop moving!”

 

“JOHN!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

“We both know you do not intend on leaving the hospital whether they discharge you or not, so do me just one favour Sherlock, and wait for John in a _bed._ ”

 

Sherlock gives Mycroft his most derisive look, in part because he's right about him staying but also because the younger Holmes knows the elder is aware that the moment his head touches a pillow, Sherlock will fall asleep. And he cannot do that. Not until he knows John will remain alive and breathing.

 

He's been given a set of hospital scrubs for trousers and a pair of thick cotton socks, refusing to wrap himself up in the papery sheet one irritating nurse had wanted to put him in. Lestrade has also volunteered a NSY sweater from the trunk of his car, and it is warm enough that Sherlock has not once grimaced at it. If the familiar smell of the DI is a comfort through the thick haze of shock, he'll never admit it. His own clothing, and his beloved Belstaff are ruined by burns, chlorine, dust, and smoke and have been taken away as evidence for some idiotic reason. He sits in the waiting room with Mycroft and refuses to budge from his uncomfortable plastic chair. Sergeant Donovan has only just recently gone home, Lestrade walking her out, but he wanders in now with coffee and offers one to Sherlock despite Mycroft's sigh of disproval.

 

“This is decaf,” Sherlock sneers but Lestrade merely shrugs.

 

“My mistake,” he replies, handing a second cup to Mycroft and sipping his own cheap brew. He does not offer to remedy his “error”.

 

In fact he leans his head back and closes his eyes, the picture of comfort in the most incessantly uncomfortable place. He's obviously not asleep but he _looks_ as though he could be. Sherlock can feel his own eyelids drooping but forces them open as he swallows the remaining contents of the cup. He focuses on his own dull pains to keep himself conscious. Bruised ribs from where he'd hit the water, burst eardrum (likewise), minor second-degree burns on the arm he'd had outstretched to shoot the gun, minor scrapes and abrasions. Damage to the throat and lungs due to smoke inhalation. He'll sound like a proper smoker for a good week by his own estimation.

 

Still, even with the bandages and butterfly strips, he doesn't look as though he's been in an explosion at all. He _feels_ as though he has...

 

“Transport...” he mutters to himself, receiving only an exasperated look from Mycroft.

 

It's not just transport for John though. They made the men ride in separate ambulances, John going first because Sherlock was conscious and not bleeding quite as profusely as his flatmate. They had taken John out in a flurry of paramedics, barked orders, and rushed trauma aid. The man they took away had not looked like John at all. He'd been a broken bleeding mess. The man Sherlock knew looked nothing like that. His John had never looked so small.

_Why didn't we drown?_ he thinks now.

“He pulled you to the poolside,” Lestrade says, breaking him out of his reverie. “He pulled you over and held onto you until we got there.”

 

His mind feels slow and cottony. “What?”

 

Mycroft looks maddeningly sympathetic and as worried as he will allow himself to be. “You asked why you didn't drown. Doctor Watson is why.”

 

He must have been thinking aloud.

 

“Sheer force of will, I should think,” Mycroft says when Sherlock is about to ask how. “People can do the most extraordinary things when under duress.”

 

“He was protecting you,” Lestrade adds, eyes still shut, head still leaned back. “Shot Sally...”

 

He hadn't even noticed, but she hadn't looked shot...his thoughts are too thick to understand the how's and why's of Sergeant Donovan's predicament and only one conclusion comes to mind. The only one that matters.

 

“John won't like that.”

 

His response is met with uncomfortable silence that Mycroft eventually breaks, “I daresay he had his reasons.”

 

The hours stretch out and still John remains in surgery. Eventually, Mycroft's PA appears with a weepy woman in tow and soon the room is filled with soft explanations from both Mycroft and the Detective Inspector. Sherlock has taken up Lestrade's position, has been like this for over an hour, but does not sleep. Nor does he spare the woman more than a glance. Even with his shock addled brain he can see the family resemblance, no matter that it's not as obvious as he thought it would be having never met her. Harry Watson is taller than her little brother, has sharper, less expressive features and medium length curly hair.

 

Harry Watson is inconsequential, and so he ignores her.

 

“ _You!_ ”

 

The smell of liquor invades his space.

 

“Ms. Watson, please – ”

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and sees her standing directly in front of where he's seated, Lestrade's hand on her elbow.

 

“If you could take your breathy histrionics elsewhere, I would be far less compelled to suggest to the very eager hospital staff that they admit you for detox.” She reels back a step in shock. He merely quirks an eyebrow. “ _Or_ I could recommend a few of the pubs in the area. You're obviously in need of your next drink.”

 

The slap barely registers though it doesn't help the ringing in his ear.

 

“You're the reason he's hurt, you bastard!” she accuses shrilly while Lestrade pulls her from the room. “He was fine before he met you!”

 

The room seems to shrink as Sherlock presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, his head now throbbing. She needn't have said it out loud; he already knows this is his fault.

 

“Don't be an idiot, it's tiresome.”

 

He looks up sharply at Mycroft who has taken a seat next to his brother once more. He turns his umbrella idly and stares absently at the wall across from them. The only sound is his PA as she taps away at her phone; no doubt managing what international crisis her boss currently cannot as he sits here at Bart's.

 

“John Watson would have been dead by the month's end if he had not met you. That his very own sister cannot see that is more a statement of her own character than a mark against yours. As it is, you did not kidnap the good doctor. Moriarty did.”

 

His gaze lists lazily over to Sherlock who is staring wide eyed but silent.

 

“You know all this you just refuse to think objectively about it,” he shakes his head. “Honestly, brother, _think_.”

 

The silence that follows, interrupted only by the _taptaptap_ of the phone, settles heavily around them.

 

“I shot the bomb.”

           

Mycroft doesn't even blink, nor does the PA falter in her texting.

 

“Your point?”

 

“He...he nodded and I thought...” Sherlock leans back again and closes his eyes.

 

John had nodded, giving his consent to end it all. To finish off Moriarty, the snipers and John and Sherlock too just to end the Game. What else could have been in that nod that meant anything but finality?

 

“I just assumed...why would he change the plan and take on the blast himself? Why would he _do_ that?”

 

He thinks he actually sees the PA roll her eyes but it's Mycroft he's really paying attention to. Because deep down, past the bitterness and resentment, Sherlock trusts Mycroft to know the answers he cannot find for himself. And now, in a rare bout of absolute rawness, he asks without petulance or immaturity.

 

“Caring,” is the reply, though it is said softly and is not followed by the rest of the usual mantra.

           

_Caring is not an advantage._

Sherlock waits but the rest of the words don't come. Eventually Mycroft addresses their absence.

 

“I can hardly begrudge John Watson his sentiment when it has saved me from facing the full force of my own.”

 

It's a confession of brotherly affection and it sits between them waiting to be acknowledged. But he can't and it doesn't matter anyway because he has been awake for almost six days running and Sherlock's body chooses this moment to finally force himself to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

There is a commotion coming from down the hall as they are led to John's room. It isn't until a stern looking nurse stops them that Greg realizes it is John who is the source of the tumult.        

 

“What's going on?” Harry demands beside him as the nurse guides them to the nearby station instead.

 

The other woman opens her mouth to reply when a team with a crash cart hurriedly passes them.

 

_Oh._

 

“Johnny?”

 

It's more of a whimper than anything and Greg isn't even sure the woman knows she's said it out loud. He grimaces and turns to guide her back to the second waiting room he'd shuffled her off to after her confrontation with Holmes.

 

“Come on now,” he coaxes almost as much to himself as Harriet Watson, and forces his feet forward. He can't recall the last time he went home or had a decent sleep and his body complains of exhaustion with every step. The bloody bomber has kept his whole team on edge for days, and now he reeks like a smokehouse and his suit is completely ruined. He'd meant to slip out once he'd escorted Harry to the ICU, but now...

 

He's not entirely sure why he's still haunting Bart's. Sally was patched up hours ago and Sherlock is alive and well (or mostly well), and Greg really hardly knows John at all. But the image of the army doctor clutching to Sherlock and firing that empty gun seems to be burned into the underside of his eyelids. And whenever he closes them there is John looking damn near animalistic, enduring God knows how much pain to ensure his crazy flatmate is safe. Greg can't even fathom how he'd had the strength to swim (carrying Sherlock's weight) to the opposite edge of the pool from the explosion _and_ hold onto him for as long as he did. Not with those injuries.

 

Mycroft Holmes wasn't lying when he said what people could endure under duress.

 

Maybe it's the fact that only John's sister was notified, the only one to care where the man ended up (aside from Sherlock perhaps), that makes Greg stick around. So far no one else has come rushing to his bedside and it's well after dawn by now. John, unassuming and forgettable, deserves one more person to care about what happens to him. And just as the thought crosses his mind, as he's settling himself into the world's most uncomfortable chair, he sees Mycroft Holmes speaking quietly to the stern looking nurse and the sight is warming.

 

Greg is not the only one keeping an eye out for John Watson.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft finds the DI snoring softly in a waiting room closer to the ICU than the one he has only just been able to rid of Sherlock. He's taking no chances and had requested, upon getting Sherlock into a bed, that the nurses hook his brother up to an IV to keep him hydrated (and sedated). Doctor Watson's sister is pacing the room and Mycroft can see she is going to break down soon and leave the hospital for a drink. He will not stop her.

 

He merely lets himself into the room and places a cup of coffee on the table beside Lestrade and sits down across from the sleeping man, counting idly in his head.

 

_One._

He taps his umbrella against the inside of his calf.

_Two._

_Taptap._

_Three._

“I've got to get some air,” Harriet Watson snaps and she leaves the room to the quiet sound of Detective Inspector Lestrade's shallow breathing.

 

Mycroft considers having Anthea follow the woman but her biting remarks to Sherlock earlier have successfully raised Mycroft's hackles. Besides, Harriet Watson is one person in this mess who Mycroft has no personal obligation to offer assistance. Greg Lestrade coughs in his sleep and Mycroft turns his attention to the DI; still soot stained and rumpled from entering a collapsing building to pull his brother out of it. There are only a handful of people on this planet willing to deal with Sherlock's rudeness and brilliance, and fewer still willing to risk themselves to save him. He texts Anthea instructions to purchase a replacement suit for Lestrade (and one for the injured Sergeant). He knows she will go beyond this and the two Yarders will end up spoiled lavishly for their troubles, but he doesn't mind. He wouldn't have hired her if she didn't know how to correctly interpret his instructions.

 

Not for the first time since piecing together the events at the pool from both Sherlock and Lestrade, Mycroft finds himself addressing the strong feeling of protectiveness he harbours toward John Watson. To be fair it has been present since the ex-soldier had shot Jeffrey Hope, but now? _Now_ there is a decided weight to it. The doctor has once again managed to surprise Sherlock (has even surprised Mycroft) and that is not an easy feat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

There is a familiar palpitating noise that drags him up from oblivion. Slowly, slowly –until he can hear voices and words but cannot understand their meaning. There is a sterile smell to the air and this too is well known. The word _hospital_ wriggles its way into his stream of thought.

 

Whoever is speaking has a lovely voice that threatens to lull him to sleep again. But another is interrupting it, a cooing feminine tone – one John knows as well. There is also a hand holding his so gently it almost doesn’t feel as if it’s there at all. With a concerted effort he blinks open his eyes and the light is almost unbearable. He grunts in displeasure and the voices come to an abrupt halt. The hand moves to his his cheek, large and cool, and through the haze of morphine a word is repeated until he understands it.

 

“John?”

 

He tries to reply but his voice comes out as a rasp. Eyes still shut against harsh lights, he feels the hand pull away and a straw placed against his lips and drinks from it gratefully.

 

“Lights,” he manages to get out.

 

“They've been dimmed.”

 

And sure enough, when he hesitantly opens his eyes once more the room around him is washed in subtle amber. He sighs in thanks and turns his attention to the man staring worriedly from his seat next to the bed.

 

“Sh'lock,” he manages.

 

His flatmate's smile is small and barely reaches his eyes.

 

“You...okay?”

 

There it is. The eyes lighten before they roll with exasperation.

 

“I'm meant to be asking you that,” Sherlock says quietly.

 

John wants to make a joke about the morphine but he's so sluggish, and anyway the other voice pipes up from the foot of the bed.

 

“You gave us all a scare, young man,” Mrs. Hudson admonishes but her tone is soft and she has tears in her eyes.

 

He lifts one heavy hand to offer to her but its covered in a cast. He narrows his eyes at it. It's the left hand, _damn_. As if reading his thoughts Sherlock says, “Broken wrist, awkward break.”

 

He can already feel sleep pulling at him again. He closes his eyes but for one panicked moment, opens them again and grabs at Sherlock with his good hand.

 

The consulting detective gives him a startled look.

 

“Okay?” John slurs again.

 

He fights off sleep until Sherlock, staring at him strangely, nods in reply.

 

“Good...tha's good...”

 

The room and with it his family, fades away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

“You died three times.”

 

The statement is followed by silence and John slowly lowers the paper he's been reading.

 

Once in the ambulance. Once on the operating table. Once in post-op.

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherlock peers over his shoulder from where he's been looking out the window. Through the darkness of the night and the heavy persistent rain, John is sure he hasn’t been able to see much of anything.

 

“We were both only ever supposed to die the once.”

 

He doesn't meet the younger man's eyes as the silence stretches out between them, and eventually John rises stiffly from his chair. The walk to the kitchen has become far less exhausting these days, but he's still catching his breath once he reaches the kettle.

 

“Tea, Sherlock?”

 

There's no reply but John fills the kettle enough for two cups anyway. When he's prepared them he sets them on the kitchen table – he doesn't have the strength to carry them both back to the living room, and his left hand feels somewhat useless in the bulk of the plaster cast. Sitting down, John waits for Sherlock to slowly make his way over, slipping into his seat like a timid animal.

 

“What do you mean _the once_?” He asks quietly.

 

Sherlock fidgets (or does the closest thing to fidgeting a Holmes can do) and looks away.

 

“You nodded...at the pool.” When John shows no indication of understanding Sherlock sighs, “You _nodded_ , and I thought you were indicating I should shoot. What did you mean, if not that?”

 

John's not sure what to say. They haven't talked about this together, about what happened _after_ John had stepped clear of the changing curtain, explosives strapped to his chest. He knows from Mycroft that Moriarty and a handful of gunmen died in the blast. He knows from Lestrade that he and Sherlock had been found together in the water with John conscious and shooting. He knows from Sally (with a healthy twinge of guilt even now) that she was the one he'd hit. But he's not spoken about it with Sherlock and the other man has given no indication that there is anything needing discussion.

 

When he cannot find the words of comfort Sherlock so desperately seems to need – he's clearly waited ages to ask this question, and when does he wait for anything – John frowns and gives his head a slight shake. He honestly doesn't remember, has forced himself to stop trying to make sense of the pre-blast haze. A flashback he thinks, and that makes him wary. If it was a nod from him that pushed Sherlock to pull the trigger, John's unstable and war-torn mind could very well have gotten them killed. The possibility makes his blood run cold.

 

Sherlock leaves him staring numbly into his tea.

 

John racks his brains to remember what he has been more than happy to forget.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.

The dream, when he has it, is always the same.

 

 _John is standing in front of him, the fear bright in his eyes. He nods._ _Sherlock shoots and watches as John looks on, confused and betrayed. Blood blossoms against his chest as he falls back into crimson water, and the smell of chlorine begins to choke Sherlock like smoke._

 

He sits up gasping in bed with a shout. A cold, damp sweat settles against his clammy skin and he kicks his sheets away, suddenly feeling unbearably stifled. Once he has caught his breath, Sherlock pitches forward out of bed and out of his room. Perhaps his violin will help to calm him…

 

He stops in his tracks when he sees John exactly where he’d left him hours ago. In the dim kitchen light, he can see that the colour has drained from the other man’s face and the hand that has been so steady for ages now, shakes with a familiar tremor.

 

“John…”

 

“It wasn't you,” he says so quietly Sherlock almost doesn't hear him. “I mean, I don't think I was seeing _you_.”

 

“When you nodded.”

 

“Yes.”

 

John lifts a hand to his mouth and sucks in a deep breath. The horror is etched into the lines of his face.

 

“I'd been fighting off...m-memories, since they strapped me in that damn vest. And I must have...” he shudders and Sherlock wants to tell him to stop talking, to tell him he really doesn't need to know if it causes this much pain.

 

_It wasn't you._

Sherlock remembers that moment, forming the suicidal idea in his head and glancing down to a crouching John to confirm he wasn't crazy for considering it.

 

A nod.

 

“It wasn't meant for you.”

 

John's words pull him back to the now. “For who?”

 

He just shakes his head. “I dunno...someone in my unit maybe. It doesn't matter.”

 

Suddenly he's facing Sherlock and the whites of his eyes flash in the streetlight from the windows in the lounge. “I never meant...I'm so sorry, I'm a bloody idiot! You could've been killed, we both could have, Sherlock! You could have just been bluffing and – ”

 

Sherlock closes the distance between them and grabs his shoulder to give him a slight shake.

 

“You’re an idiot,” but he says it firmly but without harshness. “The only people that should have died did. And yes, you are an imbecile, but only because you proceeded to try and join them three times! We're alive, Moriarty isn't. I consider that a win, don't you?”

 

“But...earlier?”

 

Sherlock sighs. Until now, the confusion had been building since the moment he had recalled John pushing him out of the way of the blast. And throughout the touch and go days in the ICU and the resulting weeks of slow healing, he had refrained from demanding an explanation from the man. He wishes very much that he had just let it go.

 

“I did not understand why you would agree to my plan and then put yourself in harm’s way in order to save me from it.”

 

The words hang in the air for a moment before John shakes his head.

 

“You’re the idiot,” he replies with quiet exasperation.

 

“What?”

 

John looks up, and suddenly his eyes are burning. Sherlock almost takes a step back but his body seems locked into place – held by the expression on John’s face. As if without any bidding from his brain, Sherlock moves the hand on John’s shoulder and brushes his thumb against the cut that has mostly healed on the doctor’s cheek. The rest of his slowly healing body is riddled with marks just like this one.

 

John reaches up with his good hand and places it atop Sherlock’s. “Do you really not know?”

 

He finds that he does, and that he really _has_ been a bloody fool. Or perhaps he just hasn’t had the hope to consider this burning in his chest was worth reciprocating. It’s been there for a while now, only he hasn’t known what to do with it. John’s close call with death, and the subsequent stay in the ICU has been enough to send Sherlock into an internal frenzy for weeks. Seeing him like that – broken and bruised, and _small_ in the hospital bed – had been crushing. Witnessing the slow and grinding progress of John’s recovery, as well as having the foresight to know that there were ways in which he’d never fully heal, has put their relationship in a new perspective for Sherlock. It has awakened in him a foreign sense of protectiveness and of fear. Perhaps that is why he’d been unable to let the question of _why_ go unanswered.

 

He takes his hand out from under John’s and slides it behind his neck, pulling him forward gently. John’s lips part slightly – almost unconsciously – in anticipation.

 

“I do know. I do.”

 


End file.
